


Useless

by WordOfAll



Series: 'Useless' series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, F/M, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordOfAll/pseuds/WordOfAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is the British Government. All those successful and efficient little changes he has done to this country, all that legislation he has managed to pull through for the good of those who did not understand, those were his offspring. He thought he was content. Except now it started to not be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The break up

**Author's Note:**

> Will have two chapters.

The sun was so low that its rays managed to get through the little windows on the top of the high and underground room. The beams of reddish light tickled the concrete near the ceiling of what was, without a doubt, a rather conservatively equipped office. A red phone sitting on top of a large wooden desk, green little lamp and a majestic painting decorated the otherwise bare walls.

 

It was time to go home and clean his head. Most of his workload for today was finished, except for a few thing that had to be rethought, reworked and would return on his desk in a few weeks. It used to be easier, back in the old days, to do it himself. Now he has acquired people to do stuff, for no person alive could solve it all. It was wise to save your strength for the big things. Something his brother never got the hang for, except for his ridiculous interesting-cases point system.

 

It was eerie how much he did not want to leave. Clean his head. That is what he wanted, and what he could not achieve. At least here he was useful, needed, here he fitted. To a perfectly working system he managed to assemble in some two decades. He liked to think himself a sort of a watchmaker, except on a much larger scale. A man who makes a mechanism working regardless of its many pieces. He was the largest one, important, but made so that the mechanism would not stop even in his absence.

 

This was his lifework. This was what would remain after him long after his death. It used to help him sleep at night.

 

"You should go," a voice interrupts his musings. Anthea. She always forgoes the obligatory 'sir' when they are alone. She is a friend, in a way.

"I don't want to go home," he admitted.

"I did not mean home. You should go see her."

"No, not today," he shook his head. Not anymore.

Suddenly, there is anger in Anthea's face. "And when? When you have an itch that needs scratching again? I will not let you toy with her!"

Itch that needs scratching. Funny, how crass it sounds. He only supposed that was how Sherlock described his sexual needs. "You are very protective, considering you know her only few weeks."

"She is a friend. And she at least deserves you to tell her it's over."

He knew. But he did not want it to end. It used to be so beautiful. Calming. Simple. And then it changed in a week.

 

He was weak, he knew. Cowardly. Useless. But none of it was her fault.

 

"Go home, Anthea. At least someone should get a full night of sleep."

 

The sky was dark by the time he got to Molly's flat. He walked, trying to stall the decision. Stupid, really. In the end, he was the same goldfish as anyone.

Every step up to her flat took energy. Putting up his arm heavily, he ringed the bell.

 

"Mycroft!" Molly was surprised to see him. She did not think he would come tonight. She did not think he would come anymore, but she would hope until the bitter realization, which would happen, Mycroft presumed, in a month's time.

"Molly," he said softly, barely hearing the words.

"Are you coming in?" she asked. There was relief in her voice. He wanted to cry.

 

Molly was afraid. He was standing there in the shadow, looking weak and sad. Almost as sad as when she met him at Sherlock's funeral.

Oh God, she was worried. She loved him more than anything in the world. The six months they were together made her believe in her luck again, in her worth in this world. And then it got wrong.

How could it have gotten so wrong? When she had asked if he would mind her nieces staying for two weeks, he told her it was OK. Martha needed a babysitter and her sister was the first choice, obviously. But thing are never at face value with the Holmes boys, are they? Perhaps he DID mind and was to polite to tell her. Perhaps she missed a raised eyebrow or something which should have told her. Maybe he minded being made a part of her family too soon and too forcefully - after all, he did not meet his own parents too often.

She has been mulling over the issue for the last fortnight. She came as far as to ask Anthea, her newly made best friend, for advice. She was as oblivious to a reason for Mycroft's behavior as Molly was.

 

There was no point in making her sad anymore. There was only one kind and decent way to act now. It hurt. He loves her. He never told her, but he does. But she deserves better.

"I came to apologize I was out of reach for the past two weeks..."

"Oh, please," Molly is suddenly angry. "If you are going to try to lie to me that you had work or were abroad, you might stop right now. I am not friends with Anthea for nothing!"

"I were not working too much and I was not needed outside of London, no. I needed time to think."

No, no, no, no! Molly was full of fear now. He was not... surely he would not...

"I think we should stop seeing each other. I were not completely honest with you... I do not like you as much as I thought I would." Of course not, he thinks. He never thought he could love someone so much.

"What?" There are tears in her eyes now. Time to retreat, before his emotions get the better of him.

"Frankly, you deserve better. Someone younger, with a less time consuming job, someone more... normal. Someone to start a family with. I am sorry." And with that he retreats to the dark.

 

"What the hell do you think you are doing! This is above all awful things you have ever done, Mycroft!"

He thought he would find his flat empty, have some brandy and try to sleep. Evidently, Sherlock thought otherwise.

"I did not give you the key to break and enter as you please, Sherlock."

"Can you even imagine how horrible she is going to be? All sobbing and mess! She might even take a leave from St Bart's! Who am I gonna get bodies from?!"

"Your concern is touching. I did not know you were aware of our... involvement."

"Involvement. That is the word you would use, right?"

"What else would you say?"

"Relationship. Partnership. Being together... whatever. You took her to dinner every other day, for God's sake!"

"Well, some of us have to eat regularly, brother. Having a... pleasurable company while doing that saves time."

"So you took her to dinner so you could shag her without loosing time, right?"

Mycroft winced. "Don't be crass."

 

Sherlock seemed to have lost his momentum. After a while, he said brokenly: "I thought you were happy with her."

Mycroft really wanted him out, so he would not have to hide his shame and pain anymore. "It was nice while it lasted."

"It denies everything I know about your love life, Mycroft. You do not take people, who are mere sex-partners to you, for dinners. Never."

"I would like to note that you know hardly everything about my love-life, brother. Now if you could leave, I am rather tired."

"She loves you. Not someone younger, nor someone more normal. She is OK with your working hours, always were. What is wrong with you that you would refuse that?"

"You are getting rather emotional, brother. And I did not know she would reproduce those words to you exactly as said. Perhaps you still have a chance. Go for it."

"Is it the children? She was rambling something about you not being OK with children."

Great. Perhaps he would leave if he buys this lie. "Yes, it was the nieces. They are boring and stupid and I do not want to become a member of her nosy family. Will you now leave."

"This is not true. You love children, being around them. You spoiled me as much as you could. And even if it were true, you would have said that beforehand."

"Believe it or not, it is the children."

 

"I believe you," a voice ringed the room. Anthea. He really must collect the spare keys from the two, they are acting as if this flat was theirs.

"Brilliant. Now, take my dear brother outside, explain to him how you _deduced_ I was telling the truth and leave. me. alone." Mycroft is aware his voice is showing his anger.

"I will explain, but I will not leave until I do so," she answers mildly, with real kindness in her voice. Surely she did not...

"There is a man, who loves a woman, and his love is returned. They are happy. He is thinking of them living together."

"I did not want to live with Molly."

"Sure. So who were you looking up a flat in the middle distance between the office and Saint Bart's for?"

"The woman babysits some children. The man is OK with it, but something goes wrong. You ascertained it is not in the relationship of the man with children. What is the problem then, Sherlock?"

"The woman's relationship with children. But Molly adores her nieces."

"Yes. She is great with children, and for a long time, she was jealous of her sister for having quite a little family."

Mycroft is desperate to get Sherlock out. She knows. She knows and she is going to tell.

"Stop. Please, stop," he tries.

"You should have told me," she says, sadly. "But most of all, you should tell Molly."

"What for? She truly deserves better," he is tired. So tired he lets the mask go away. There is no need now.

Sherlock has never seen Mycroft looking more defeated than now. He seems to shrink into a broken little shadow of the persona he maintains during the day. It is scary. What is even worse, he has finally figured it out.

"You have read his personal medical files," Sherlock states calmly. "Mycroft... you can't... why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, it is not something to cry out of the roof of the Parliament, is it? And for a long time... it stopped mattering."

"You figured she would want to have children with you. That that is what she dreams of, her own, perfect little family." Anthea sounded a little as if she were about to start crying. Sherlock did not blame her.

"So, instead of facing the issue as a man you took the coward's way out." Sherlock knows he is harsh. But it is necessary.

"You think I am proud of that! You think I am proud of being... I cannot have children. Never. And Molly can... there are thousands other men, who can give her whatever she wants, whatever she asks..." Mycroft realizes he is sobbing out loud. "Perhaps it is right, after all. I had my try at parenting with you and look how useless I've become as soon as you could walk on your own."

"Tell her." Anthea pleads.

"No."

"Or I will." Sherlock threatens.

"Please, don't."

"Tell her the truth."

 

 


	2. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it is done.

221B was eerily quiet. Sherlock was neither shooting the wall, nor screeching on the violin. He was sitting on his chair, bare feet raised in a Turkish way of sitting. Hands joined by the tips of his fingers, he was studying the man in front of him intently.

"And you are sure there is nothing to be done about you?"

"Except for cloning me and getting my genes right this time, no. And I would appreciate if you did not use Dr Watson's computer for your male infertility search, since he is quite likely to put two and two together."

"He gave me that notebook, since I have used it anyway."

"Don't say. Which government agency did you try to hack with it?"

Sherlock grinned. He has got used to the idea of Mycroft not having any offspring quite easily, far more calmly than Mycroft expected. He even showed some basic elements of tact in not calling Mycroft 'impotent' (which he was certainly not, his sex-drive was completely all right for his age, thank you very much!). But he still, after four days, insisted Mycroft told Molly. Which he would simply not do.

 

"I do not get why you have to be so stubborn! After all, both me and Anthea are quite all right with knowing it."

"I think the point is about ME being all right that you know it. Which I am still certainly not. Anthea gazes at me with sickening pity from time to time at work and you are pestering me with incessant questions about my overall health the whole time. And the only reason you did not read my medical file too is because I made sure Anthea's access to it was permanently blocked."

"She looks at you with pity because she knows you're a stubborn ass who is ruining his only chance for happiness."

"What do you think would happen even if I did hypothetically tell Molly, eh?"

"She would tell you it's okay..."

"For someone of your age you are incredibly naive, brother mine..."

"...and suggested you try other ways of getting children when you both feel like it..."

"Exactly. And a never ending and completely useless round of fertility clinics would follow, which she did not realize initially and would grow fed up with rather quickly."

"Mycroft. All you need is ONE sperm."

"I am aware of the mechanism of creating a baby since five, brother dear. And that 'one sperm' you put your hopes in may swim in a comparatively much larger sea, even if it exists. I am telling you, when I found out I considered all alternatives..."

"...did you get some frozen? Mycroft..."

"I was told it would be useless even then. Only God knows how much worse it is now."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"There's adoption. You could get a baby that way."

"Even longer and more sickening round of forms, which she would have to endure. And you know how the last psycho-evaluation of my capability to fit into a family ended."

"You were ten."

"She suggested me a sociopath, Sherl."

"Psychologists are charlatans."

"Yes. And both me and Molly would have to make a good impression on one of them."

 

Suddenly there was ruckus from the hall. Both men stood alert, the conversation that took place forgotten for a moment.

"Um, Mycroft. Hello," a rather out-of-breath John found his way through the hastily opened door. "Sherlock. There's been a murder. Lestrade says it's at least nine. Ten hands differing in shape, skin colour and size impaled on the spikes of a Christian comunity center's fence. Coming?"

God bless the madman of London, Mycroft thought. This might buy him at least a week of peace from Sherlock.

"No. Tell Anderson to contact me when they identify who those hands belonged to, or at least how many different people were there."

John's mouth fell open. "Like - really?"

"Yes. I am currently working on Mycroft's case."

 

"You should have gone. I am not going to tell Molly."

"You have no idea what you have done, Mycroft. She has called ill into work and not left her flat for the whole time since you last seen her. If she did not talk to Anthea via phone, one could almost think she were dead."

What Sherlock said shook Mycroft to the core. He did not know Molly would take it this badly. It is true that he could not know - he has deliberately cut off all surveillance he had, to a certain extent, kept an eye on her for the last few months with. He thought that if he had no new information on Molly, he would eventually stop thinking about her.

He has perhaps made a mistake. Maybe he should talk to her. Perhaps... perhaps he might make her feel better, even without telling her. He knew the 'we could still be friends' sentence was a terrible cliche, but maybe a two people as intelligent as he and Molly were could maintain a civil, simple, easing-the-pain-on-both-sides friendship.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked when Mycroft started to put on his coat.

"Make something better. You stay here and for future I would appreciate if you stayed out of my affairs."

 

Unusually for himself he took a cab. He made a quick stop at one of their favorite Italian place after phoning there from the steps of Sherlock's Baker Street flat, and with a hot pizza box in his hands he made his way to Molly's door.

He rang the bell and unlike himself waited what the fate had in store.

 

"Mycroft? What... why are you here?" Molly looked terrible. She lost weight no doubt, her hair was greyish and unkempt and she wore plain home clothes which did not flatter her figure much. Still, it would be one of the most beautiful sights Mycroft had in four days, if his heart was not being crashed by fear for Molly's health.

"I thought... Sherlock told me you were not... okay. So I thought I would make it a bit better..."

"By bringing pizza?"

"I brought calzone..."

"Just leave it on the table," despite her tired voice, Mycroft recognized a dismissal. But he refused to go. He hurt her and he had to make it better. Whatever it took.

 

He has put the box on the kitchen counter and started collecting a plate, cutlery, a glass of water with lemon. He moved with known ease, remembering the flat from his stay while the nieces were here.

It was nice. There were four people in Molly's flat for a fortnight and it made it look a bit more crammed up - but he enjoyed it. The elder of the girls, Mia, brought a Yamaha keyboard with her and Mycroft took the opportunity to show his piano-playing abilities. They played cards, watched TV, ate mostly together, when Mycroft did not have to stay late at work. After the mess stopped and both girls slept peacefully in the guestroom, he and Molly would slowly make love in her bedroom smelling of lemons and her hair, while the cat - Toby- kept scratching the closed door with his paws.

Except by the time the second week came, the realization dawned on him, that it was no coincidence Molly owned a flat suitable for four, with a guest room easily convertible to a children's one. What he first thought was just Molly being good with children suddenly looked much more like Molly _craving_ for children - and why would she not want children? She was still young, but not as stupid as to think she could delay pregnancy forever. And he had given her no reason to believe he would be adverse to have a family - in fact, he truly loved being around small kids. They were curious and truth-seeking to a fault, still unbroken by what Mycroft for lack of words called society.

It is true, she never asked if he wanted some. But they were together six month - a beautiful half a year - but still short a time to ask such big questions. It was logical of her.

What was not, though, was that it never occurred to him before the babysitting. He prided himself in being the British Government, the man behind everything, the more intelligent of the Holmes boys - and he never realized.

 

"Here, you need to eat a bit," he offered Molly her own chair. She was so dazed she sat, but did not start eating. "Molly," he started, "I realize that the last time I was here I may have been more... abrupt... than I intended. I just thought that if we talked, it might help things."

"Which things? Help me, or help you in stopping me making a scene. Do not worry, I will not phone my story to the tabloids and jump out of a roof."

He cleared his throat. "I am pleased to hear that." The snort that followed from Molly was unbecoming.

"All right, we will talk. Or I will, since I could not get a word out of myself four days ago and right now I get a brilliant chance to tell you what the hell I think of you!"

She stood and there was such anger in her it made Mycroft step back. "But I still do not know what I think of you, because I still do not understand. I thought everything was perfect! The way you played with Mia and Liz and how you moved around here - it felt right, you bastard. And then you come here, with a lie so obvious a five-year-old would catch it, and try to make me believe it was nothing?! What was a lie, Mycroft? The few words you said on Monday or the hundreds or caresses and touches and dinners and kisses and fucking times we made love before that?"

"Molly, please, calm down."

"And when you leave me whole confused, you have the nerve to come here now? What were you gonna do? Give me the 'still be friends' fucking speech?" She was crying now. "Was I just not enough? Not enough what? Beautiful, or clever, or what? Or is it my family? I would never think such a self-made-man as you would mind, but after all, you have tea with royalty on regular basis!"

"Molly..."

"Or is what you said true and I can't even recognize what is real and what is not anymore? Did you really just toy with me? Was it at least worth it? A pleasant shag after a international call..."

"Stop it!" He has had enough. He could not even think much anymore, he just knew he had to stop it. If her brain was working in such circles for the last few days... what the hell has he done, indeed. "I can't have them!"

The room suddenly ringed with silence.

"Have... what?" Molly asked, confused.

"I cannot have children. I... I did not want you to know, but I can't let you go on like this."

"So... you broke up with me... because you can't have kids?"

He nodded. He felt his Adam's apple bobbing, but he fought tears valiantly. "I knew it for a long time... eighteen years. Had a partner then, Brian. I lost him over this woman who came out of the blue with a child in her arms and a claim I raped her and was the father. They took my DNA, made some tests and found out that not only I am not the father of the child, but I could have never been."

"Mycroft..."

"Oh, save your pity for someone who could be helped by it," he snapped. "Sorry. The thing is... I should have never allowed us two to happen. I am simply not made for relationships, certainly not for ones with women. Always seemed... complicated. But you, Molly Hooper," he raised his head shortly, "I did not even know how that happen. And when you had your nieces here, I figured... you would want a family, eventually. And I... am useless in that regard."

 

They sat in silence for a while, each focused inwardly in their minds. The shadows were growing and the pizza went cold. "What are we gonna do now?" Molly asked then.

"We? Nothing. I am going to go to my house and you should eat something."

"You are not going to stay?"

"Stay?"

"You still have a toothbrush here."

"Molly..."

"Go get shower, I will get us another pizza."

"Molly..."

"Or would you rather have gnocchi? I said you are fond of them."

"We broke up."

"No. You broke up with me. I thought we agreed we would not make any important one-sided decisions."

"Molly..."

"Tell me you do not love me."

"What?"

"You avoided those exact words the last time. Tell me that, and I will believe you."

"I might lie again."

"If you really could, you would have lied about this four days ago."

"Molly," he sighed. "I will not lie. But still... I only want you to be happy."

"We might be happy together, Mycroft."

"Telling yourself that will not make the issue go."

"No. But this will." And with a slight smile she showed him the display of her phone. She must have gotten a text a few minutes ago.

 

TESTS COMPLETED.

QUALITY OF SPERM OK.

HALF MYCROFT DNA, WILLING TO SHARE.

SH


End file.
